


Sublimation

by Zefferus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attempt to talk, Comfort/Angst, Explicit Later, Greg is Sweet, Inspector why are you here, M/M, Mycroft is beyond mortified, Mycroft likes very much to be left alone, PWP, Pining Mycroft, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-14 11:31:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18051716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zefferus/pseuds/Zefferus
Summary: Mycroft sometimes indulges his hidden mild exhibition streak in the privacy of his own house. It serves as a more healthy and less diet-involving method for him to relax properly after a certain trying day.Mycroft rarely assumes, but he'd like to think that his action concerns none others, and routine certainly dulls one's alertness as it's too late when he discovers that he is not alone in his game.###Undergoing maintenance and rework, no entry advised.





	1. Intrusion

**Author's Note:**

> Finally. To think this starts as a crack yet meant to be more. The notion that there will be people bound to enjoy this as well as I do, prompted me to post it. *smirk* Hopefully my writing skill haven't ruin it.
> 
> Thanks for reading this. It's un-beta'ed hence all mistakes are intended and mine. Sorry.

As far as Mycroft is concerned, all humans are bland and similar in their feeds yet each has a certain quirk or outlier in their behaviors which may marks them slightly more distinct than the others.

And Mycroft deems himself a plain simple hardworking man, who constantly serves his full utilities and loyalty towards the Queen and the nation, after all his nickname in the international political field is never earned through fancy whimsical situations nor should it be taken lightly. The mistake of underestimating Mycroft Holmes has not been repeated for a long while till now, after Mycroft had inflicted a few thorough -though not quite as truly alarming- lessons to both his foes and allies.

However Mycroft, he repeats for an emphasis, is a simple man in his long years solitude who sometimes craves simple pleasure as well. And granted, all men should have their privacy moments in their own house much as it is their right, though let it not be mentioned that it is Mycroft's job requirement to browse through other people's or nations' privacy. Advisably, do let it be considered that all has been done for the greater good of the British nation.

On the other hand, as per stated, Mycroft muses that he should be perfectly justified and excused for his peculiar perk, no pun intended, that after he has arrived home and keyed in the lock, blocking the outer world, removed his shoes and gloves, he will sometimes indulge himself by walking straight to his liquor cabinet to pour out a lovely old Macallan, two fingers in a glass tumbler, then another hand wanders down to slowly pull down his trouser zip and, well,  extracts his penis and let it be exposed to the mild temperature air of his living room.  _Oh._  Mycroft gives a lovely shudder as a crossing draft caresses over his body.

He may have stroke it once or twice, to initiate the flow of blood in certain route. Feeling his penis swelling, Mycroft has a clear concise what a corrupting image he may presents to others' eyes. To the others, his prim and proper three-piece suits and idle slight haughty expression are all still in place, giving the air of mannerism and stoicism, which is spoiled entirely by his hardening prick, straight and long, hanging almost unsuspectingly out of his trousers. The colour of red flesh an interesting contrast against the dark cloth material. He ignores the heat which no doubt blooming across his damnable pale freckled cheeks as he takes another small sip from the glass, allowing the seamless blend of flavour to roll over his taste buds, meticulously cataloguing each distinct flavour behind his mind. Mycroft sub-consciously wet his lower lip and shut his eyes temporarily.

Then, heaving a sigh as if to breath out that foulness he has suppressed in his lungs, Mycroft can sense that he is starting to unwind between his shoulders, dropping down from the heightened sense, focusing at once to everything and nothing. His living space remains clean and sterile without a spot in sight in its mixing Victorian design. It is mostly lifeless, an overqualified tasteful show house without much personal touch except the smaller living room and his bed room. The bought in furniture mostly remained as they are. Not that Mycroft usually minds much, really, especially when the conflicted feeling of un-belonged and intrusion only serves as stimulant at this moment. The illusion of another person present and looking at him at this moment....

Mycroft may admit to no living soul that he sometimes just favours the filth and debauchery too much. He ignores the throbbing angry flesh almost savagely, very content to continue take in the drink idly, noting to himself that it has indeed been a trying day.

An international co-project has gone down the drain resulting in a number of death which ended with that unmentioned nation leader flushed in instant sweat and fear as he met Mycroft's cool stone inquiry through video conference, after Mycroft's late learning that the man has had the audacity to avert from his plan instruction due to his swollen pride, replacing a certain vital pawn with his own man, fancied himself for once having the upper hand in game with Mycroft.

_I assure you, what you're saying is unheard of, Mr. Holmes._

Oh yes the imbecile had grappled for words in his desperate confusion, usual politician denial and sly diversion attempts, only to blissfully realize in terror soon enough, that his words accomplished nothing but stoked Mycroft's fury higher and higher. Mycroft only smiled coldly then, his assistant wisely knew better when she promptly replaced the Earl Grey they were having with a pristine white mug of scorching black coffee. In the end a more satisfactory negotiation end was achieved in the interest of British nation. Mycroft himself resolved to keenly ensure that the next election delivers a swift clean painful kick out for that hair piece of annoyance.

But then, it was just another day of the endless work. Days come and go and here he remains. Mycroft notices the depletion of his drink being faster than he has anticipated, thus reaching for the bottle to refill another finger, he wryly vows in his still disquiet mind to treat the Macallan 30 with better dignity it deserves. _This is not entirely foreign experience._ After the stress and depressive notion over the loss of valuable British agents, understandably he is reaching for his crave in an un-repressed desperate urge to find an outlet, to tighten yet loosen the familiar sense of control over, for now, his body. The carefully situated mind will be dealt later with an attempt to sleep after relieving the thrumming tension laying under his muscles, confined within his suits. And he'd like to make the process long and slow...regardless of the flesh being in other side of opinion.

Sipping on the fine amber liquid concoction, the auburn-haired man starts to saunter along the corridor to his smaller living room and at the round of corner, he is mildly distracted with his nose in the glass and by the penis bobbing along the movement, teasing against his trousers materials. He has just wrapped his palm around the head for a nice stroke, breathing out a moan when his eyes finally up, nearly drops his Whisky in a spasm as he sees none other than Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade is in one of his seats facing the fire hearth. The previously dozing silver-haired man himself half-turned expectantly to greet him is now staring at him in his utterly shocked, round, wide dark-eyed expression.

 

 


	2. Intent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Inspector, many words are unfounded but why are you here?" The quiet voice is applaudably steady and never falters for a second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I planned to post this along with 3rd chapter but alas, the bad habit of obsessively revisit and adding to the written part has denied such feat.  
> I fear if I don't post it soon I'd tempted to write it over 2k.
> 
> So here it is.

Words cannot describe Greg's mind now.

 

Maybe one. _Blown_. A ton of T4 dynamite sets off at once in his brain.

 

Or maybe two. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK!_

 

Being all too hot and cold under his skin still staring   at the usually serene and imperturbable man scrambled like a spooked cat to turn with his back on him, hurriedly cover up himself beside the door, Greg notes that the poor man seems to be having a hard time dealing with the zip, what's with the problem of stiffy  - _now is not the time to think about this Lestrade_! - while struggles to balance the Whisky in his other hand, Greg himself could do no better except scrabbles around for support to be up on his own feet, looking helpless as well. At least his jaw isn't hanging stupidly open anymore.

 

The policeman bets the politician dearly wishes to flung the glass against the some satisfyingly solid surface when a short frustrated whine is growled, amidst the effort of battle, which sends shiver for a silver-haired man who once again chastises himself for inappropriate reaction. 

 

Not soon enough, finally Mycroft has straighten his spine, mentally takes a deep breath, before he turns back to face him, in wary and tired expression, racking up all of Greg's instinct to jump and dodge out of a bullet way or run blindly toward the source, his heart is beating almost painful against the rib cage when he hears, "Inspector, many words are unfounded but why are you here?" The quiet voice is applaudably steady and never falters for a second.

 

Yet the knuckles gripping the tumbler belies the owner's phlegmatic appearance by turning bone white. The face takes on a deeper red near purple shade just from the table lamp shade and flickering fire light. The man himself hasn't moved from his spot yet.

 

_A deer in the spotlight indeed._

 

“Um, ” Lestrade obviously hesitates, the lingering fear of intrusion upon privacy and the flaming something else shouting behind his brain are boiling up his sense, urging him to do something rash.

 

Such as daring to approach smoothly and give the man a hug and do whatever he can to sooth his fear. 

 

_Inspector that will be very unwise and oh so very dead._

 

As if he wouldn't know already. Strange enough,the voice of sense in his head sounds much like Mycroft joined by his own broken sing-song voice. 

 

_Man flashes you a dick and you're going mad._

 

Steeling his nerve, Lestrade manages to snatch up the folder from the table, “the case files. Sherlock came into my office, took a look at them and straight away looking disgusted. He said the Liverpool street tourists shooting has fallen squarely into the grasp of security service” He rubbed his forehead, "and since I couldn't reach you this evening, I managed to get a hold on Anthea. I was instructed by your assistant to kindly deliver this file to your place directly, in my time since you're “currently unavailable”. I dropped by after my shift end. 8pm. I met your, em, butler, man has a voice of silk, by the entry, told me to stay here for a sudden required meeting. Dinner was prepared. It's nice, all of it, and, perhaps a tad too comfortable for an old dog like me." 

 

Greg's hand slides from his neck to rest on his shoulder, digging his left palm and fingers against the stiffness, oddly watchful of his own breathing. He briefly closes his eyes,  _not_   _to mention I had gone through 28 hours only stealing some sleep here and there. Used to be able to still have another go at the pub before crash down like a firework. Fucking old. "S_ omehow, look I am sorry- I accidentally dozed off by the fire." _In next minutes I was startled into alert by the sound of closing door then liquor handling,  and judging by the footsteps I reckoned it was you, so I waited here a bit awkwardly ready for a late meeting then go home, and the rest is just surprise and hell. Welp this should goes unsaid. There_. After done talking, the man looks back patiently once again to Mycroft's face, as if expecting him to say something.

 

Then Lestrade frowned.

 

"But you weren't expecting me." 

 

In answer, the Holmes elder brother only gives him a peculiar, pained expression as if speechless. A subtle gulp.

 

“Inspector...” Mycroft‘s eyes shutter in paleness which reminds him of flat cracked rock cliff that has been braving the sea waves and bleaching sun for too long, “Apparently I was failed to be informed of your presence, nor had I requested a meeting. Rest assured I will find out who.” He pauses a note, perhaps already ticking a list, “And, joyful, I have never enlisted the service of a butler.” The last word is barely strained out.

 

Lestrade's jaw goes slack for the second time, "Wait what?" 

 

"I'm the only occupant of this house. "

 

"Then who was the person I had seen?" Then realization dawns on the man.

 

"Sherlock." Mycroft nods.

 

"The butler was him?!” The inspector starts pacing in back and forth, Mycroft notes that the man is still careful to put a significant distance between them, and now Lestrade is ruffling his hair without care, a habit of agitated thinking, Mycroft wishes to tell the man to cease it at once. The silver strands are glinting the orange light in most breathtaking way, no law nor order, it's too distracting. “Um the house was dim when I'm in. 6" feet 2 inch. Duller skin tone, shaded in shadow, three-piece suits packed with silver chain watch,  slicked hair, crow black eyes - contact lens, Roman big nose and - god damn make ups! With a silky deep voice like," The arm flailed in the air with an attempt to reach for suitable words, "some sort of magic potion maker. All of this just to pull a prank like this? ......Wow, what the hell, what was he thinking?" 

 

_Indeed. What thinking._

 

 _“_ Judging by your slightly jumbled yet informative narration, Inspector, I doubt Sherlock put any sedatives in the food from...the Berkeley street. ("Wait Sherlock did a take away for me?!") I suspect I know the courtesy was from whom. Your drowsiness was more likely the effect of sleep deprivation. And please desist another apology. You needed your sleep. I should be the responsible one."

 

While replying the Inspector, Mycroft numbly pulls his phone from his coat, a neat slide across the screen. As the white box screen unlocks into the familiar home page, he sees the late message notification.

 

_6 unread messages._

 

 

_[23:35] The men just reported that G.L. still remained in your house. Car will be dispatched in 5 minutes notice if you wish for no disturbance. -A_

 

_[23:36] I apologize for this late info, sir -A_

 

_[23:36] I was convinced that it will help against your recent dilemma. -A_

 

He knew very well what the ‘dilemma’ is about. Yes. 

 

 _You will soon learn the the reason of taboo in meddling with your boss’s private life, young lady._ Mycroft thinks viciously, visualising the bullets of order to be fired from his office first thing in the next morning. Rest assured bullets will not be the only things fired. Let it be well known that his personal life not even the insomnia issue shall concern absolutely anyone except himself.

 

He flipped the screen image under his thumb, ignoring his trembling hand,  _and of course, Lo and behold._

 

_[23:36] Just thank me later for delivering the man straight to your house. -SH_

 

 _[23:36] Seeing you mooning all over him makes me sick. Just stop avoiding him and start talking. -_ SH

 

[ _23:37] Will send bill for the service performed. -SH_

 

Mycroft swirls his tongue over his teeth, now having the phone in death grip. The still sensible part of his mind promptly suggested perhaps the meddlesome duo truly did act out of pure kindness. But seeing now, as per usual, Mycroft firmly believes nothing ever goes well for him in the name of kindness, _more like a late revealed assault,_ he muses bitterly. Even in his own goddamn house. While the Inspector still frowns in confusion, he had known too well in which part of the Inspector's timeline activities started to gone array as they intertwined with his, to reach this point of ice. It probably started from seven years ago.

 

 _The God must have really hated me_ , Mycroft cannot help but to wonder. In unbreathable silence he takes in the appearance of the man standing there. _And he is still so beautiful despite the exhaustion. A man with warmth, bravery, confidence and persistence to remain loyal despite all the corruption and depravity roaming the world. I have chosen to expose him to such indecency of mine, allowing him to lose another regards towards me. Such, such depraved, me._ Mycroft suffers another involuntary shudder. His stubborn legs forbid him from taking a step back. He awfully doubts he can repeat such activity without thinking of this horror ever again, which means never. 

 

_God forbids a man to have solace in his own sin._

 

Feeling entirely too ill, he let the silence echo between them, unsure what else to be said. 

 

_Caring certainly not an advantage._

 

Mycroft twists his eyes shut, as another wave of emotions crashed through him.

 

Then, a sigh. Halts the scream in his head. An exhaled air breathed out in a soft whisper. 

 

It was from Lestrade.

 

"Right. Look Mr. Holmes. You really don't need to mind yourself much. The mistake is mine and I apologize deeply to have intruded upon your privacy. I promise and of course to keep this between us, none others will know anything happened tonight, I hope that you can trust me with this, we shall never speak about this ever... Erm you look like you really need to take a seat. " The careful expression of Lestrade shifts into alarmed, before Mycroft can understand, the man is already in front of him, hands out ready to support when Mycroft's knees buckle. 

 

"Hey hey, Mycroft! "

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *flicks up a cigarette, takes a drag, puffs* man, what a mess I created. 
> 
> The story seems to form itself into this, and I just wanna write down how it's like, that sometimes in our life, we are the butterfly speared and pinned in a spot, utterly paralyzed by voices of own demon. But I'm still not good enough to portray it well, hopefully time will allow me more practice...
> 
> Mycroft does care, he cares too much.
> 
> Thank you for reading this. Sorry if it's not what in your mind. Gentle, gentle.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to see what comes next from here on, kindly leave a kudos or comments.  
> Author's still in her baby steps and love will be much appreciated in joy. Thanks!


End file.
